"Something for Lady Franklin, sir?"

There is no other possibility that it is possible to consider without developing a full-blown migraine headache and needing to lie down. No other individual could possibly have both reason and appetite to see the captain of the Erebus in a sporting state of undress. This is Goodsir's individual curse -- as the man most familiar with the equipment necessary to create a Talbotype, it's on him to document the scenery of their expedition. Perhaps in another time, with different lenses or a different process, he could capture crisp images of the whole Arctic panorama -- now every time he waits for an image to develop he has the sinking feeling of dread in his stomach that there will be something in the print that wasn't in the viewfinder, some murky blot that can't be accounted for or worse, a great upright scar of white…

Sir John gives him an indulgent nod, and adjusts his stocking. He must have had a splendid figure, back in the buckskin-breeches days when a young Navy man needed only a well-turned calf and a golden complexion to recommend him. Even at present Franklin hasn't any of the detrimental signs of age, no hunched shoulders nor gouty ankles -- just a fine if somewhat portly carriage and an uncommonly exquisite pair of legs. All in all he's a stately specimen, even if the effect of the exposure is somewhat -- lewd. Focusing on the vortex of white clocked stockings and on the workings of the camera apparatus will keep him from perishing from nerves.

Lady Jane has been blessed with such a considerate husband. Goodsir ducks down behind the camera, and tries to hide his blushes.

"Very well, sir. Hold still."